Otherwise We'd All be Dead
by Wordy Typewriter
Summary: This story describes, in detail, the events that have happened to Sam Puckett while facing her pregnancy in the story "Facing the Swell" which was and is still being written by NagiR. All credit to NagiR. Sam-centric; Sam/Freddie, Sam/Carly friendship
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, this will be my first iCarly story that I shall post on . This is a story based upon "Facing the Swell" by NagiR. Each chapter shall be a descriptive version of the poetic version NagiR. has written. Let it be known that she's given me permission to do this story, and is even helping me with it. So, you can just say that we are kind co-writing it. I'd like everyone who likes this story to go and read the original. It's really good; I'm sure you'll like it. :D  
Anyway, this has cussing in it. Remember people, this story is rated T for a reason.  
Disclaimer: No, and if you want to be reminded of this, just come back here to chapter one, 'cuz I'm not gonna put this tidbit of info again.__  


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**Otherwise We'd All be Dead**

**Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009**

When you were twelve, your mom made you pee on this little white stick, saying she was checking for viruses. (You tested negative, of course.) It was only a day later when you found the box that the pee stick had came from, that you figured out that it was actually a pregnancy test.

If there was one thing you thought you'd never do, it'd be taking that same "virus" test four years later.

* * *

You're pacing, and the crazy thing is, you hate pacing, and you hate people who paced in front of you because it got you all worked up for nothing, but you're sure as hell doing it right now. You near the only window of your bathroom, and just as you were about to make contact with it, you turn sharply around, trudging forward in the other direction, and repeating that same motion as you're about to collide with the musty old oak of bathroom door.

Stopping, you look down at the slim white stick (or Death Stick, as you've dubbed it) in your hand which is white and blank at the moment and you shake it vigorously, trying to make it give you a faster answer—an answer that would favor you.

You shake the stick again, and continue pacing. So many things were wrong with this situation that it wasn't even funny. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror, and set the Death Stick down on the edge of the used-to-be white porcelain, and run a hand through you tangled mane. Inspecting yourself in the mirror, you see that your hair is a complete mess, you face is so fucking greasy that it felt like it had been dunked into a tub full of lard, you stink from lack of shower, and you're two weeks late.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you take your cell phone out and check the time—only thirty seconds until your possible death sentence. Time ticks away quite fast compared to the other four minutes and thirty seconds of pure, utter hell you have gone through. And now it's time and pick up the Death Stick.

The Death Stick in your hand, which you've come to know as a home pregnancy test, shakes because you can't control the horrible tremor that's overcome your hand, and you don't think you can let your eyes wander down to find out the result. But after only a moment of complete silence and confidence building, you force your eyes to and you wish you hadn't because now you think you're going to die.

That little plus is staring right back at you in its proud, pink coloring.

You've always hated math and the color pink.

* * *

Your cell phone is singing some Drake Bell song that you can't remember the name of at the moment, it's probably Carly, or maybe even the dork, calling to ask why you haven't been to school for the past three days, which you're bound to make four.

But you just let it sit there, in your coat pocket that lays discarded and forgotten atop a pile of clothes across the room. Nothing inspires you to ascend from your somewhat comfy bed and make the trek to get it. You don't want to deal with all the crap you know they'll give you for skipping school and them for so long.

So you just lie here, on your bed, and stare up at the white ceiling above you. That ceiling of yours has seen so many things over the years that it makes you sick—'things' meaning your weaknesses, of course: crying, bleeding, your mom (in her many states of mind), your secrets...

You ease out a sigh, and don't care enough to listen as your cell goes into another song by Drake Bell. You just close your eyes and let the fatigue you've accumulated over the past three days bring you back to your slumber. You mustn't keep those anxious nightmares waiting.

* * *

"Wake up..."

An almost soft murmur reins over the silence that occupies your room, one that tears a rip through your already unsettled dreaming, one that you refuse to listen to.

"Wake up."

Now more demanding, hinting that if you don't do as they say, you'd end up with the ham you have hidden in your sock drawer (which you know they know where it is) out your window. So you crack one eye open and lock gazes with the chocolate brown, Hershey Kiss eyes of Carly Shay. And you can't help but think that they could piece through a dozen monuments.

But you just stare back into her unforgiving eyes, rebelling against them with your own.

"Why haven't you answered any of my calls or called me or something to let me know that you weren't dead?!" that's a question you've already expected her to ask. Her expression held one of worry and disbelief. But, hey, how could she really not? You're always at her house—apartment, whatever—always raiding her fridge, always doing whatever the hell you please.

She must think something is seriously wrong with you. And you know she's right on the mark, of course, if she's thinking that, which she probably is, because she's Carly Shay, your _best friend._

Something _is _seriously wrong with you.

* * *

Should you tell her?

That's the question that's been plaguing your mind ever since you woke up two hours ago to Carly and her worriment. But really, should you tell her? She's your best friend, and you know she'll stick by you through thick and thin. Hell, she's been with your since the 3rd grade, she's already been with you through a lot of the "thick and thin" that pertains to your life. C'mon, getting knocked up isn't the worst you've done in your life. Right?

Sighing, you dig out a spoon full of chocolate ice cream from the bucket of Kilken's and place it into your mouth, actually savoring the delicious chocolate and not quickly diminishing it like you would usually do, but, hey, you don't usually go making your best friend worry about you for three days because of an act of stupidity that you did at a summer party.

Carly's also partaking in the enjoyment of the sweet treat, but she's doesn't look wholly satisfied, not in the least bit. Which this only brings you back to that haunting question of yours:

Should you tell her?

The question reins as a major priority to be answered, at least in your mind; the question practically _needs_ to be answered because, otherwise, you'll go insane, more so than you already are.

_Shouldyoutellher?Shouldyoutellher?Shouldyoutellher?_

It keeps repeating itself over and over and over in your mind, like a broken record player.

Carly takes the spoon from her mouth and sets it in the Kilken's ice cream bucket that you two are sharing. You're both not worried about how "germy" that notion is because you've known one another too long to even think of that.

"Tell me what's going on with you..." she whispers, gently, caring, worriedly. And, before you can think about it once more, you do:

"I'm—I'm pre—pregnant..." it comes out strangled and you feel like you're on the verge of passing out, but you know that if you do, Carly will be there to catch you. You take comfort in that.

* * *

As you've expected, after all of the emotional shit has passed, Carly wants to know who the father is, but you don't think you're strong enough (that's a silly thing to think about—you not strong enough to do something, that is) to tell her, not just yet.

Hell, you doubt even the guy who knocked you up even remembers that night, you both were pretty damn well wasted that night and plus (oh, how you hate that sign), how can you tell her that it's _Freddie_, the _tech-nerd_, the_ dork_, the guy you've bullied since as far back as you can remember?!

How can you tell her that?

You won't.

You can't.

You're _not._

_

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Please review and tell me if you liked it or not. Tell me what should I work on, and whatnot, please. I'd appreciate that.  
:D_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello, dear readers. I just wanted to say, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all those lovely reviews. I enjoyed reading them so much. They made me feel so good about my writing. And, just to let you know, this chapter should've been up yesterday, but I had something of a "Family Day" with my mom, dad, and little sister and couldn't really get to the comp. long enough to write. I hope you like this chapter as good as the first, and I also hope that I don't disapoint anyone.  
Oh, yeah, I don't own the movie Juno.**_  


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**Thursday, September 24th, 2009**

The morning sun has come and rose and now it's shinning its very bright, yet warm rays of light upon your face, waking you from your somewhat comfortable slumber. But you're not fully awake, you're stuck somewhere in a state of mind that you try not to visit too often: your, as you've named it, Black Room.

You've called it your comfort zone; but the reason you don't particularly like this mindscape that you've created is because of the very reason that you don't like being weak, and that's what you come to this place for: being too weak to face the world, head-on.

But now, you force yourself to wholly come to, and out of your Black Room, and into the world of consciousness. The first thing you come to find is that you're in the arms of Carly, who still has the same worried expression marring her face as the one she had last night. You let out a dry chuckle; even in her sleep, Carly still tries to console you.

_"It's gonna be alright."_

You remember the words she'd said to comfort, and calm you last night as you cried only dry tears into the crook of her neck. That's another moment of weakness in your life that you're going to lock in the closet of your Black Room. But enough of that, you want to know what time it is.

Reluctantly, you snuggle out of her warm hold, and slide to the edge of your bed, taking half of the covers with you; in the process of which, nudging Carly from her sleep.

"Sam..." she mumbled as she rolled onto her other side, and grunted as she did so.

You stand, shakily and stumble a couple of times before you get the hang of walking again. Any other day, you would've just let yourself fall and continue you sleeping, or rather, you wouldn't have gotten out of your bed in the first place, but right now, you're determined to get to your coat, in which lies your cell. "Yeah, cupcake..?" you're voice is hoarse, you notice, and scratchy, but you choose to ignore it.

She mumbles something incoherent, but then speaks up, "What time is it?"

"Working on it," you inform her as you lift your coat from one of the many piles of dirty clothes you have created in your room. Reaching inside the right pocket, you pull out your cell and flip it open. 1o:16a.m.

Oh, great. Carly's gonna freak when she hears this. She's never willingly missed a school day; it's like, "against her religion" or something.

And you're correct about your assumption; she does freak, so much so that she immediately snaps outta her sleepy stupor and is now frantically pacing around your room, which is making your jittery, mumbling almost incoherently that she needs to get ready for school. Her pacing soon turns to something of power walking as she speeds outta your bedroom, only to return a moment later.

The sight of the pure confusion upon her face accompanied by her messy "bed hair" and ruffled clothes makes your stomach bubble with amusement. Carly's expression goes from confusion to worry to the look of utter and complete doom (talk about bipolar) as she let out an inhuman shriek that makes you wish you didn't have ears, "Where the HELL am I?!" You stare in shock at your best friend. Carly never, _ever_ cusses, and at that realization, you let out a round of laughter.

"My house. 'Member, you came here last night." you explain to her after you recover from your bout of mirth, and she appears to recall the events of last night as her lips form an 'O'. But now that same worried look you've come to know oh so well over the past 24 hours has come to claim her features.

"But why don't we skedaddle on over to your house. Perhaps, hide out there for the day?..." you use your very best persuasive tone of voice, and Carly smirks, "Skedaddle? What a weird word, especially coming from you."

* * *

The world has come to an end (in more ways than one, but you're not going there). Carly Shay—_Carly fucking Shay!!—_little miss goody, goody is skipping school with you, hence the reason why the world is ending. You really didn't think that she'd listen to your words of persuasion and actually skip with you, but she is!

She tried to tell Spencer some lie about her period making her feel really sick, but it didn't work out too well, so you had to step in and say you two needed some girl time for reason that you weren't able to disclose, which was pretty much true so no lying there, at the moment but they were important. Nevertheless, being the cool older bro he is, he bought it and allowed the act of illegality.

Carly's spending Thursday with you, just the two of you, and you love her for that. You think that of all the choices that you've made in your life that the one when you became friends with this girl was the greatest because she truly is the best friend you could ever have.

So now, you're hauled up on her couch eating extra-buttered (without Carly knowing this, of course) popcorn and drinking diet Peppy Cola (because apparently, caffeine is bad for your pregnant body) while Carly's doing research on the computer about pregnant teenagers. But you're just trying to put up your façade of being lazy (which, this part isn't that hard) and indifferent about your newfound situation while watching silly, comedic movies, namely _Juno_ which Carly just put in the DVD player.

And suddenly, you burst out in a chorus of demented laughter at hearing this girl, who's against abortion in the movie, say, "Your baby has finger nails!"

Ha, ha... Wow.

You place a hand on your chest, trying to calm your laughter, but to no avail, you just can't seem to stop. And it isn't until you feel Carly's hand on your should, pulling you into her that you notice you're crying.

* * *

You wake from your nap on Carly's couch (when did you fall asleep?) but your eyes are closed. You don't want to enter the world, you're not ready, and you can already sense a presence of ominous doom lingering on the edges of consciousness, and you feel yourself slipping away into your Black Room. But no, you don't want to go there, you shouldn't because then, you'd get lost and you're always afraid that you'd never come back out again.

For the second time today, you force yourself from that state of limbo, and to crack your sleep-deprived eyes open only to come face-to-face with the source of all of your problems: Freddie. You almost let out a shriek at the sudden appearance of him, but then the realization that you're _Sam_ _Puckett_ and _Sam_ _Puckett _does not _shriek_ hits you and you clamp your mouth shut.

Freddie's just staring at you. You notice that he's got that same look Carly had given you yesterday, that whole stare-through-a-dozen-monuments thing. And you just gaze back into his eyes until he has to look away from the intensity of it all.

"How goes it, Fred_dork_?" you ask as if it's the simplest of questions, which it probably is, right next to "will you pass the ham?" and "what's four times five" (ah, maybe not that one; math is dumb).

"How goes it?" he starts, incredulously, "_How goes it?!_ Is that all you can say?! After you haven't answered any of my texts or calls! And you've skipped for the past four days, and today you took Carly with you, leaving me all alone, not knowing what the hell was going on! It's like you've forgotten all about me!" he sighs, running a hand through his dark brown hair while you just stare at him, unimpressed.

Well, if he was _so_ concerned, why didn't he just come see you like Carly did? You cross your arms over your chest, in your usual, defiant, manner and cough out a sigh.

"What's been going on, Sam? Are you okay?" he really does look worried, so you just give him an excuse that you know he'd fall for, "My mom forced a shitload of asparagus down my throat for some reason unknown to me even now, four days later. You know I can't digest healthy greens in such _generously _epicproportions."

Freddie seems to accept this lame excuse of yours, but still has this unsure look growing about his face that he can't quite hide, or just isn't even trying to hide it—who knows? Not you.

You yawn, subtly (yeah, subtly—so not your style, but you don't care, your whole world is going outta whack, why don't you join it in the wackiness?) trying to change the subject because you know he's gonna throw another question to you about the matter of "what's going on with you" and ask, "So, where's Carly?"

He seems to perk up a little when you mention your best friend and you can't help but feel a pang of something sharp in your stomach (and you're pretty sure it doesn't have to do with that _thing _growing inside of you). You're not quite sure what this feeling of hurt is, but you do know that you don't like it one bit.

"She's upstairs in the studio, we're supposed to have rehearsal today, remember? Or have you forgotten about that, too?" Ouch. Well, that isn't very nice, but you decide not to bite on it, not right now. You'll get him back later, sometime.

"Whatever, Fredweird." You grit out between clenched teeth, and stand from the couch, and start your way up the stairs to the iCarly Studio.

* * *

The soft cushion of the beanbag feels nice against your back and you allow yourself to settle dipper into its comfort. But hey, what can you expect? This is your favorite beanbag, after all, so therefore it holds greatness.

Multicolored, scribbled-on note cards are splayed all over your lap and some of them are even resting on the cold, hard floor of the iCarly Studio. They hold ideas for the next episode of iCarly, which is tomorrow. You're sitting here, trying to listen as Carly and Freddie get you up to date with what they have planned for tomorrow's episode, but you're just not connecting very well with them, at the moment.

One of the reasons for this is that Carly keeps asking you like, every five seconds if you need anything.

"Sam, do you need anything?" and there she goes again. Really Carly, way to be kinda obvious? You do love her, she's your best friend, but God, could she at least turn it down a smidge?

And it doesn't help the fact that Freddie keeps staring at you from his position by his techie equipment. That stare he's giving you just creeps you out to an extent that you're getting kinda paranoid; it's like he knows, like _knows_ that there may be something inside of you, other than this morning's fried chicken. But you decide to just shrug it off, because he can't possibly know. He can't.

"Do you need anything, Sam?"

You sigh and lock eyes with Freddie, "I'm fine, Carls."

He just can't.

* * *

You can hear the lock on the old deadbolt creek to the unlocked position as you twist the key to your house.

For once, in your petty, little existence, you've willingly gone home, and against Carly's wishes that you two have a little hangout time (aka, her observing your every move, and how you eat, drink, and sleep) but your mom isn't home, so whatnot make the most of it? Her shift at the Granola Bar ends at five a.m. and you know that she'll probably bring home some random guy while she's in her stupid, drunken stupor, but you'll be gone (to Carly's house) by then.

She won't even know you were here.

* * *

Once you've made your way upstairs, to your bedroom, you climb into your somewhat comfy bed without shedding any of your clothes. The sheets are calm, cooling against the parts of your skin that aren't hidden by clothing, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

Your eyes are getting heavier and heavier by the second, and you take a chance and do what you haven't dared to do since you've found out about your little secret: placing a hand upon your stomach.

It's flat and smooth. There is no sign of what's forming inside of you, and that's when a sudden thought explodes throughout your mind: abortion?

An evil?

Yes.

But a necessary one?

You think so.

* * *

**_HEEEY, review, please? Tell me what you liked or didn't like, please. I'd love to know what I should work on to make my writing better. And, oh yeah, tell me if I went too out from the original with things._**

**_Keep slidin' on._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_Hello, again. I wrote this chapter while mainly listening to this AWESOME German band, Rammstein. The lead singer's (I've yet to find out his name) voice is so deep and GRAH. Luff~  
Well, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

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Friday, September 25th, 2009_**

You sigh as you lean inside your locker, placing your chin upon your dusty, old Integrated Math III book that you've hardly ever used since you first received it in the beginning of the year. It's Friday, and you planned on staying home (at Carly's) again, but Carly's forcing you to go to school. But what's one more day to miss? Nothing really happens on Friday, anyway, just a couple of quizzes or tests.

She knows that you'll probably just skip class, which you do plan on attempting. Yet, you're still here, resting your head in your locker while Carly stands beside you, whispering stuff, that only you and her can hear, of what you can and cannot do because of your... "implantation" (your terminology).

You puff out another sigh, lift your head from you locker, turn around and scout out the hallway. See, you're kinda trying to avoid Freddie, because after what happened yesterday—the whole, him staring at you during iCarly rehearsal with those "knowing" eyes—you've been kinda... well, not exactly afraid, but not wanting him to stare at you like that again because it made you feel sorta...

Oh, there's Gibby (what a good distraction)! He's standing in a group of five, nerdy kids, probably talking about Galaxy Wars, or something. Even though you're a good few feet away from him, you can hear the snort that comes from his throat as he laughs at one of his nerd-friend's silly attempt at a joke, and you think he needs a wedgie.

So, what're you waiting for? The Apocalypse? That boy is clearly in need of a wedgie!

* * *

You can hear the eighth bell of the day ring throughout the school, signaling that 3rd period is now in session. But you're not attending Mrs. Yan's class today, because you're in safe haven (and you're not talking about your Black Room). The place you're referring to is the old janitors' closet that has never been used (to your knowledge) in the three years you've attended Ridgeway High. It's your secret place (at school), you come here almost every time you skip class while you're actually _in_ school.

It's not much, but it's homey, because you've brushed it up a bit, like, actually dusted a few places, and cleaned up this old, disgusting vomit that was stuck to the floor when you first came upon this place. You've got this really awesome, old, dusty-red armchair you stole from old man Higgins' yard.

You sit in this armchair that you've named Burton (after Tim Burton, the guy who made one of your favorite movies: _The Nightmare before Christmas_), while you wait for time to tick by and class to end. And while you do this, your mind wanders over the thoughts you had before you fell into a heavy sleep last night.

You haven't told Carly that you're thinking on the idea of abortion, yet. You're sorta, _sorta_ afraid of what she'd say, because maybe she'd want you to keep... _it_ and she won't like you anymore if you kill _it. _But you, yourself, aren't sure whether you want to keep _it_ or not. You've heard that it doesn't feel anything when you do have the abortion...

But having an abortion is still only a lingering thought born from your chaotic mind. Besides, just how the hell would you _ever_ obtain the money? You can barely afford a school lunch, much less a fucking 300 hundred dollar abortion.

Bringing your legs to your chest, you let your elbow rest on the right armrest of Burton and plant your cheek into your palm. You close your eyes and sigh (you seem to be doing that a lot of that lately...). The thought of an abortion is still here, in the back of your mind, you're still thinking about it. It's not completely pushed away.

* * *

Now, it's 4th period and you're sitting on one of those plastic cushioned chairs in the Counselor's homemade therapeutic office. The only reason for this, though, is because, apparently, Principal Franklin (or Ted, as you call him) thinks you need help, because you just so happen to have a thing for giving Gibby wedgies, on a daily basis.

You can't help if the kid unknowingly asks you for them by being annoying. It's not your fault.

But Principal Franklin won't listen to reason, so you're stuck here with Ms. Scraff and her ways of "guiding you through life"—the words of Ted, himself.

"Here," Ms. Scraff says as she hands you a few papers with, what looks to be, black stains marring the white surface, "I'd like you to look at these, and tell me what you see. I know it's kind of cliché, but it's sort of a rule, you know?" she smiles warmly, and peers at you through her glasses, down the bridge of her nose.

You grasp the papers and examine their ink splotches, "Well, the first one is a cantaloupe with one, hairy ear. The next," you move the first paper to the back of the three, "is a European Fatcake, and," you finally come to the last of the white, card-based paper, "this one is a ham." You glance up to meet the eyes of Ms. Scraff, who's only staring at you with a blank expression. But her eyes say another emotion: loathing; perhaps for her job, and/or you.

You chuckle at her.

"Well," she clears her throat; your guess is that she's trying to calm herself, "Okay. How about you tell me what's happening in your life? Anything you want to talk about? Something bothering you at home? Anything?"

"Oh, you know just the usual, the eating, drinking, and sleeping type of thing"—_Oh, and getting knocked up by my frenemy_, you add in your mind—"I'm not bothered by anything. I'm as perfect as you can get with fine." What a fucking bold-faced lie you've spun. Oh well.

She gives you a skeptical glance as she flips through a few papers—most likely, your record—that are attached to the clipboard in her hand, "Oh, really? Then why does this say that you are given detentions almost every single day."

"Hmm, perhaps 'cause the teachers here are out to get me?" you give her the same answer you've given anyone else who's asked you that question.

"Samantha—" she starts but you correct her in a hot second, "It's Sam. _Sam._"

It takes her only a moment to process this information before she continues, "Alright. Sorry. Sam, I'm quite sure that the teachers here at Ridgeway aren't 'out to get you'. But—if by some chance they are, why would they be doing this?"

"'Cause, I dunno, they don't like me?"

"And why is this? Did you do something like," she looks at your record again, "unscrew the bolts of their chairs. Or maybe even smear tapenade all over their cars? _Or_ perhaps put lobsters in the trunk of Ms. Francine Briggs?" she looks at you with the same loathing expression that most of your teachers have when they see you. And they say counselors are supposed to be your "friends". "Shall I go on?"

You raise your eyebrows at her, "Nah, but I think I will." You stand from your seat and, despite her protests, start outta her office, but stop right before you exit her door, "You know, about that crazy girl you were talking about, I think you should watch out for your desk. You never know what might pop outta there..." Then you exit her office and you know, without actually seeing her face, that her eyes are wide and fearful. You smirk at this.

* * *

You step through the double doors of the school library, because this is where the note on Mr. Rice's door said to come to. Apparently, your English class is having class here today. But you don't mind because being in the library usually means you get to hang with Carly (since she's in the same class as you) and actually get to talk with her some.

It's when you make your way over to Mr. Rice and hand him the note that excuses you for being late to class because you were stuck in the counselor's office, that you notice that Carly's over by the computers. You make your way over beside her and force Shannon, who'd been occupying the seat next to Carly, outta her seat and sit down.

"Yo, cupcake," you greet her and she give you a questioning look. "What?"

"Where were you? You totally missed lunch. That isn't like you at all..." Yeah. That's right. You missed lunch. All because stupid Scraff had you jailed in there for forever, that is, until you busted outta there.

"In the counselor's office." You tell her, honestly, "Ted made me go get some 'guidance in my life'." You roll your eyes at the memory and Carly chuckles.

"Well, look, I didn't know if you had gotten lunch or not, but I got you this." she looks around, probably making sure no one is watching, and reaches inside her unzipped book bag and pulls out a sandwich. And it's not just any sandwich—it's a _ham_ sandwich.

Your mouth waters and your stomach growls as you look at the succulent food in front of you. God, you're starving. You take the sandwich in a hurry and hold it under the desk as Mr. Rice walks by. When he passes, and his back's turned to face you, you quickly unwrap the plastic covering the sandwich and take a huge bite. You moan out the words that sound sorta like "thank you" as you taste the deliciousness of it.

The sandwich is gone in a matter of two minutes and you wished you had more. And it's like Carly knows exactly what you're thinking (which is highly possible, because she's been your friend so long that she can read you like the back of her hand) because that's when Carly pulls out this chocolate chip cookie and hands it to you.

"Gah! Thank you so much, Carly!" You exclaim as you, yet again, unwrap the plastic covering on the cookie, and scarf it down.

Carly chuckles at your antics, and then says, "No need to think me for that one, Freddie bought that for you."

At hearing this, that sweet, sweet cookie that's making its way down your throat has stopped its journey, and it's not until you feel Carly patting you on the back that you realize you're choking on it.

* * *

When you get home (to Carly's), you head straight for the fridge. You take out that tasty fried chicken leg, lick your lips, and take a generous bite out of it. You don't even bother to warm it up in the microwave because chicken always taste better to you when it's cold.

Now Carly's beside you, leaning on the kitchen island, and nonchalantly informing you how you're probably going to have morning sickness soon. You stop chomping down on your chicken leg, startled at her comment.

You've never really thought about having morning sickness before, at least, nor before now. And you can't help but shudder at the thought of waking up early every morning and practically throwing up your brain and fried chicken.

For once in your life, you set that chicken leg back into the plastic tub in the fridge from whence it came. Which doing this action only succeeds in making Carly worry about you because you've never willingly stop eating food when you get started, unless you're very, very sick, and that isn't often.

* * *

"And 5... 4... 3... 2..." Freddie does his little finger motion, pointing between you and Carly, signaling that you're live now. You put up that trademark lazy smirk of yours and a façade of genuine happiness.

Freddie looks at your and gives you this smile. Your stomach flutters, and you can't tell whether it's from indigestion or from the fried chicken you attempted to eat earlier.

But you just shrug the feeling off and continue making funny faces with Carly.

* * *

You can hear Carly bump around in her bathroom, probably trying to put her PJ's on like she said she was going to do while you lay on her bed, letting out a long, loud yawn.

You're about half asleep when you feel the bed shift weight; Carly's finally crawled into bed. It takes only a moment for you to come back and cross your halfway asleep point, and now you're falling into a rather nice dream about ham and Fatcakes, perhaps a little Freddie here and there, too.

You'll probably regret dreaming about him later, but right now, you're just going to live in the moment of things.

* * *

**_Reviews are welcomed and appreciated._**


	4. Don't Get Your Hopes Up

Yep, this is one of those story stopping Authors' Notes. I'm putting this up here because I'm pissed. And I mean pissed. But I'm not going to disclose any information for why I'm putting on hold because I'm a nice person and I happen to have the ability that allows me to control my angered self.

And, just to let you know, this story will most likely be deleted within the next few days. I'm just giving you all a little heads up of what is to come.

Well, see ya for probably the last time from this particular story.

-Lolleys


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